Writing satisfies. I write “I am tired,” and suddenly it means more than simply a physical and mental fact. It has possibilities. Questions. It also has finality. Tiredness may leave, but the written statement remains. Thus, to write the words is different than to speak them.
Writing legitimizes thoughts that would sound silly in speech. In writing, I am able to say seamlessly what would come out so haltingly in speech. You cannot read my pauses as I weigh which word will work. If it takes an hour to write one sentence, I am the only one who need be concerned about it. As it happens, none of these sentences represent anything near an hour.
The moon tonight was a sliver, suspended in the tree branches as sliver moons often are in the illustrations for nursery rhyme books. And so I sat on cement steps under the sliver of moon and cradled a guitar. Which sounds romantic, magical, inspiring. My feet fell asleep as often happens when I sit cross-legged, and mosquitos came eagerly to sample the evening’s entertainment. Which sounds prosaic, mundane, humorous.
The two in conjunction with one another – the magic and the mundanity – this is life. Cockroaches crawl across moonlit paths; butterflies light upon landfills; formal attire is usually uncomfortable. And the Muse strikes when I am sleepy, to slow my bedward progress.
The inspired writer likes to be imagined as paintings might portray her: at ease in a white gown and a rapt countenance. And yet she sees herself, fuzzy-haired, bleary-eyed, and in a fraying hoodie. Which is as it ought to be, somehow. Besides, it isn’t inspiration. It is just writing. Which satisfies.